


la confiture

by boreumdal



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette, Aged up characters, Fluff, Slow Burn, almost everyone in this fic is a chef, cooking au, gabriel is still a prick though, marinette and adrien are still hopelessly sweet and adroable, restaurant AU, slight angst, some things don't change no matter what au you dump the characters into
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boreumdal/pseuds/boreumdal
Summary: When aspiring top chef (and anonymous creator of a popular baking blog) Marinette Dupain-Cheng is hired to cook at the famed restaurant La Confiture, she marks the restaurant's sous chef, Adrien Agreste, as her rival and seeks to surpass him. But she quickly finds that there’s more to Adrien—and La Confiture—than she could ever have imagined, and suddenly, her dreams don’t seem so simple anymore. Cue backstage kitchen madness, lots of late night cooking, just as much late night dining, and a healthy dose of reluctantly falling in love.





	1. Part I

**la confiture**

part i.

“Everything sucks.”

“It does not. You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

Marinette Dupain-Cheng lifted her head from her arms and aimed a glower at her best friend. “Do you have room to talk?”

Alya Césaire shrugged, shuffling mangled, dull looking eclairs that around on Marinette’s counter in a way that would have been quite aesthetically pleasing if the eclairs themselves weren’t so ugly. “I can admit it, at the very least.”

“Fine! I’m dramatic! But why can’t I be dramatic _and_ good at baking?”

“Practice makes perfect,” Alya sang, lifting her camera up to her eye and squinting through the lens at the perfectly arranged, deformed eclairs.

“You’ve told me that a million times before,” Marinette moaned, dragging her feet to the love seat in her living room and flopping down into it. “How about a different proverb?”

“Fine, then. Some people just can’t have everything. How about that?” The camera clicked several times.

“Well, that’s just rude and discouraging.” Marinette blew a strand of hair out of her face.

Alya finally looked up from her camera and laughed. “Why are you so down on yourself, Mari? This kind of stuff is gold! You get tens of thousands of hits on your blog every time you post something new. Being bad at baking is your lifeblood. You should own it.”

“I don’t _want_ to be bad at baking, though! I could be the best cook in Paris, but I can’t expect to ever make sous chef at La Confiture when I can’t even bake a cookie without burning it.”

Alya raised an eyebrow. “You really think you can beat Gabriel Agreste’s own son out of the position?”

Marinette pursed her lips grumpily. “I could if I had the baking part down. In a couple of years. Maybe.”

Alya shook her head and resumed taking photos. “I don’t get it. I’d much rather run a successful blog with thousands of followers than be a star chef at some boring restaurant.”

“It’s not _just_ a restaurant, Alya!”

“I know, I know. It’s _La Confiture_.” Alya made a gagging motion.

“Whatever. You were salivating over that silk pie slice I brought you the other night,” Marinette said, walking back over to the counter and picking up an eclair. She took a bite and had to tug a little at the pastry with her teeth to get it to break. The pastry was rubbery and tough in her mouth, but the cream filling was pleasant, at least. She made a mental note to emphasize that on her upcoming blog post.

Alya grinned. “Didn’t you tell me Adrien Agreste made that pie for the staff?”

Marinette threw the half-eaten eclair at Alya’s face.

\---  


“You look like you need a drink.”

Adrien Agreste gave a weak laugh. “I was hoping you’d notice without my having to ask. Just a beer, please.”

Nino Lahiffe cracked the lid off of a green bottle and slid it over the bar to Adrien, who took it gratefully and sipped. Nino returned to wiping down the counters, which he’d gotten back to a relatively clean state after dinner service had finally ended. “What’s got you down?”

“Just tired,” Adrien mumbled, sliding the beer bottle between his hands on the lacquered surface of the bar. “You know, the usual.”

Nino frowned at Adrien’s slumped-over form. Adrien straightened up a little—although he knew Nino wasn’t the type to judge, the way his friend peered at him through the round glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose made him feel particularly scrutinized.

“Did you fight with your dad again?”

Adrien laughed. “That obvious?” He lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“Dude. You know I would never,” Nino said reassuringly. He glanced around before opening his own beer bottle. “Cheers.”

“Seriously, though, how did you know?”

Nino shrugged. “Just a guess. I saw him stalk out of here a few minutes ago with murder in his eyes.”

“Do you think any of the other employees saw?”

“Nah. And if they did, it’s not like their first thought would be that he must have had a fight with you. He’s just like that, so it’s not unexpected.”

Adrien laughed again, this time genuinely. The laugh felt good in his stomach, like a medicine. “Thanks, Nino.”

“Anytime. So what was it about this time?”

Adrien leaned against the back of the barstool with a sigh. “He’s upset about that _Vogue_ interview.”

Nino frowned. “How could he be upset about it? Our reservations got booked into next Christmas after it went to publication.”

Adrien saw the printed interview, the crisp black-and-white portrait of him in his chef’s uniform, arms crossed and an uncertain smile on his face, in his mind’s eye, and wanted to retch. “I didn’t expect them to, but they published that line about me wanting to go back to school one day.”

Nino stared at him for a moment before bursting out incredulously, “That’s it? Where you literally just say, ‘I don’t know, it might be nice to go study astrology or something in another life’ or something like that?”

“Astronomy,” Adrien corrected. “And yeah. He said it doesn’t look good when I don’t say my whole heart is in cooking.”

“You were talking about _another life_. That was the question! ‘What would you do in another life?’” Nino shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “That man is ridiculous. I could never tell him, because he pays me, but he is ridiculous.”

Adrien smiled weakly. “I know. I get that he wants to pass down the business and that I have certain duties and expectations to fulfill because of that, but… I can’t pretend to understand the extremes to which he’ll go.”

Even though Nino did not respond, Adrien felt his friend’s eyes on him, and he suddenly struck with guilt. “But look, Nino, I mean—I… He’s not wrong. I should’ve been more careful, right? It doesn’t look great if I say that I’d rather do something else. It would’ve looked better if I’d said no matter what reality I’m in, this is what I’d like to be doing, don’t you think?”

Nino looked at him with an expression that Adrien couldn’t and didn’t want to place—a cross between exasperation and pity. “Whatever you say, man.”

\---

 

Adrien dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and immediately undid the top three buttons of his uniform. As he switched on the light, a black cat brushed up against his ankles, nudging its head insistently at his shin until he reached down to pick the cat up.

“Hi, Plagg,” he said, using one finger to scratch affectionately under the cat’s chin. Plagg’s purrs rumbled through Adrien’s chest as he held the cat against himself. “Did you have a long day, too?”

He let Plagg down and turned immediately to the laptop on his island counter, flipping it open and seating himself on one of the stools. When the screen loaded, he pulled up his browser and clicked on the first link he’d saved to his favorites bar. A header that read “Ladybug Patisserie” loaded, and immediately beneath that, the latest post, simply entitled “fruit tarts.”

Adrien felt a stupid grin spread across his face. He’d been hoping for and looking forward to this all evening. Ladybug’s writing describing her baking adventures always read in a sweet and hilarious kind of way that made Adrien feel like he was listening to a favorite song while driving or lying back on a soft mattress after a tough day. Tonight’s entry was no different.

_After last week’s disaster with the eclairs, I decided that maybe I was just a little too ambitious about my (hopefully?) burgeoning baking skills. I purposely chose something much easier, by all accounts that the Internet and various cookbooks could provide me: the fruit tart. As one site so aptly states, “Fruit tarts are impressive-looking desserts that are not difficult to make at all.” Perfect! Exactly what I’m looking for! How did they know?_

_Whoever wrote that post was wrong, because that person has yet to meet me. The fruit tart has four components: the shortcrust, the vanilla cream, the glaze, and the fruit toppings. Please read below to see how I miraculously manage to screw up each and every element of this impressive-looking dessert that everyone in the world but myself is capable of making!_

Adrien caught himself chortling loudly as he scrolled through the introductory paragraphs and onto the photos, which showed, in hysterically excellent lighting, Ladybug’s progress as she slowly assembled the elements of the dessert and the spectacular finish: soggy-looking fruit turning to mush over a lumpy vanilla filling that seemed mildly off in color somehow, all in a shortbread crust that had crumbled significantly when she’d removed it from the mold. She hadn’t even gotten to put the glaze on the fruit, as she’d burned it in the pot (also showcased in another well-lit and well-framed photograph).

Adrien laughed delightedly at the conclusion, in which Ladybug lamented her lack of intuition for baking but vowed to be back next Wednesday with something new, as usual. He scrolled back up through the post, trying to identify exactly where she’d gone wrong. Now that he was looking more for technical issues than humor, he could see some glaring problems already. He chewed on his lower lip, wondering if he should mention it to her in the comments. He’d never tried to interact with this faceless heroine who was easily his favorite person on the internet, even if he’d never seen her or met her or knew anything about her, other than that she was a horrible baker with a great sense of humor. But she’d made his day quite a bit brighter, and he thought the least he could do was offer her some simple tips to make this recipe easier next time around. His fingers hovered hesitantly over his keyboard for half a second, and then he began typing in the comments box below the post.

_Hi, there, Ladybug. I’m a huge fan of your blog. Baking can feel like a thankless practice, and I admire your ability to keep a sense of humor about it instead of bashing your head into a wall! If you don’t mind, here are a couple of tips from someone who bakes regularly. First, I’m sure you know this already, but it seems like you’re not whisking quickly or often enough when you stir in the egg mixture. Even with a strainer, it’s hard to get a smooth filling without lumps in there if you let the entire bottom of the mixture solidify into cooked egg, which is what I suspect happened. As for the shortcrust, try using a food processor instead of your hands to make the mixture. It might feel less “authentic,” but it’ll get you better results, and no one (except for us) has to know. :)_

Adrien paused, wondering if he should leave a name. He thought better of it on the off chance that someone else at La Confiture frequented the blog as well and would call him a know-it-all. His eyes landed on Plagg, who was now fiddling with a toy shaped like a fish that Adrien had bought him two weeks ago.

_Thanks as always for your hilarious and uplifting posts. Looking forward to next week’s._

Adrien typed “Chat Noir” into the name box and hit “submit.”

\---

Marinette pulled open the double doors of La Confiture with urgency and ran her way through the restaurant toward the kitchen, unraveling her scarf and shrugging off her jacket as she did so. She could already hear the noise of knives hitting cutting boards, pots and pans clanging over the dull roar of numerous conversations overlapping each other as various chefs de partie shouted orders to the commis chefs and porters.

She tried to tamp down her panic. Gabriel Agreste was absolutely unforgiving of tardiness, even when it was for a true emergency; Marinette couldn’t imagine the dressing down she’d receive for being two minutes late just because her doctor’s appointment had run behind. She kicked herself for not just leaving the appointment when she’d first realized she wouldn’t make work in time.

She ran through the kitchen doors and skidded to a stop, scanning it quickly and then breathing a sigh of relief when she did not see Gabriel’s face. Still, Adrien would be responsible for overseeing all the staff when Gabriel was absent, but—

“Ah, Chef Dupain-Cheng. You’ve decided to come in today, after all,” a voice said from beside her, and Marinette jumped so high that she could have touched the ceiling if she’d reached her hand up.

Adrien Agreste chuckled, arms crossed as he came up to her.

“Chef!” Marinette flushed. Even if he wasn’t his father, Marinette didn’t like getting caught being late, particularly by her rival. It made her look lazy and undedicated—the last thing she needed when she wanted to move up the ranks. And she wanted Adrien to consider her as serious competition. “I apologize for arriving late,” she said quickly. “I was at the doctor’s and my appointment ran over the scheduled time—I should have just canceled it—”

“Nonsense,” Adrien said, waving a hand in the air. “No one’s hurting for you arriving a few minutes late. It’ll be our little secret. Just try not to let it happen again when my father is around. He can be pretty scary, as you know. It’s not fun to get yelled at in front of the entire kitchen staff, trust me.”

Marinette stared at him, slack-jawed.

“Everything okay, by the way?”

“H-huh?” Marinette was still too startled by Adrien’s casual response in the face of her tardiness to really process his next question.

“You were at the doctor’s, you said. I hope everything’s okay.”

“Um—oh, yes,” Marinette blurted out. “Just an annual checkup.”

“Oh, good. Well, I’m glad you’re looking after yourself, Chef Dupain-Cheng. Not enough of us do in this profession, which is pretty counterproductive, if you ask me.” Adrien smiled at her. 

“I—” Marinette couldn’t muster up a proper response. What _was_ the proper response? She’d never been spoken to with such… _humanity_ by a superior in the kitchen, at least during working hours, before. The proper response, she supposed, was to shut up and get to work. “Thank you, Chef.”

She scurried toward the locker room to hang up her coat and scarf, willing herself to forget about the exchange with Adrien in its entirety. Gabriel had told her upon hiring her that there wasn’t any room for distraction in his kitchen; although he never mentioned anything about those distractions coming from his own son, Marinette suspected that still wouldn’t really constitute a valid defense.

\---

Prep time passed in a quick, stressful blur, and Marinette still felt like she was hardly ready when it came time for the staff to eat before dinner service. She’d been quite prepared to skip the staff meal altogether so she could prepare more, but Mylene, the _entremetier,_ had been insistent that she join the rest of the group.

“You’ve got to eat _something_ ,” Mylene had urged her, tugging at Marinette’s sleeve. “A chef who passes out in the middle of dinner service won’t be any good. Come on.”

Marinette took the seat next to Mylene in the posterior dining room where the staff ate their meals before service. The air in the room was jovial, with everyone discussing their plans for the upcoming holiday break as they passed large family-style bowls of pasta and salad from person to person.

Mylene reached toward the bowl of seafood linguine in front of them and began to pull some onto Marinette’s plate. “Hurry and eat, you must be starving! You didn’t have breakfast this morning, right?”

Marinette obediently stuffed a forkful of pasta into her mouth. She was grateful for Mylene’s maternal nature; growing up, Alya had always been the one to look out for Marinette when she needed it, and she realized how fortunate she was to find another figure like her at work.

“All right, everyone, could I please have your attention?” Adrien called, standing up from his seat at the opposite end of the table. “I’d like to run back over tonight’s menu for a moment.”

Marinette glanced up from her bowl. Adrien’s profile glowed with a faint gold lining produced by the already-setting Parisian sun streaming through the windows behind him. He began reciting the day’s dishes with a sense of poise and polished confidence beyond his years, and all eyes and ears in the room were on him now with an almost-reverent level of attentiveness.

Not for the first time, Marinette noted silently that somehow, even though he was not nearly as terrifying as his father, Adrien managed to command the respect of the staff in a way that Gabriel Agreste himself could not. Although she tended to keep her distance from Adrien, if Marinette had to guess, she supposed this had something to do with his kindness—how his energy filled the room with warmth, while conversely, the air seemed chillier when Gabriel spoke.

“Next are scallops from the Calvados coast, pan-seared, served with farofa and sweet red pepper chutney. The final dish before we move on to the cheese course will be honey-roasted duck with candied sweet potatoes, black garlic, and lemon…”

Marinette found herself daydreaming, for what had to be the thousandth time, about what it would be like for her to be the one standing up there, reciting a menu that she had gotten to create herself. She suspected it would take her eons to get to Adrien’s level of adeptness in designing the menu and the grace with which he led the crew, which was a little disheartening, given that they were around the same age. Then again, as Alya liked to remind her, Adrien had been trained for this his whole life by one of the top chefs in the world, while Marinette had only begun cooking in university and had risen quite quickly up the ranks since then.

 _“So you’ve already proven a lot can happen in a few short years!”_ Alya had told her just a few days ago.

“...and dessert will consist of sugared beignets in a bitter chocolate dipping sauce, and miniature winter fruit tarts topped with pear and persimmon and a grapefruit glaze.”

Marinette had nearly forgotten about the fruit tarts. When she’d first seen them on the new menu for the week, she’d wondered, somewhat wildly, if Adrien secretly read her blog; after all, he’d introduced that dish into the dessert menu only two days after she’d posted about her fruit tarts. But even given Ladybug Patisserie’s immense popularity, she couldn’t imagine that Adrien Agreste, sous chef at one of the top restaurants in the country, found the time or the energy to read the weekly exploits of someone who couldn’t bake to save her life. It had to be a coincidence.

“Have a great dinner service, everyone. Just think—one more night, and then you get a nice three-day break for the Christmas holiday!”

The room cheered, and Adrien grinned, surveying the room. His eyes paused when they met Marinette’s. His head tilted to the side, and his lips quirked up ever so slightly at the corners, as if he were sharing a private joke with her that no one else in the room would understand. For a brief few seconds, Marinette felt the air leave her lungs, and then she blinked and forced herself to turn her attention back to her linguine.

It had to be a coincidence, she thought again to herself. Still, she was suddenly grateful she’d kept herself anonymous on the blog all these months.

\---

“The last customer of the night just left,” Adrien announced to the kitchen. “I couldn’t be happier with how smoothly things went tonight. Thanks to everyone here, we just had our most successful Christmas Eve dinner service in years.”

The kitchen staff cheered and applauded. Kim, the _rotisseur,_ let out a loud _whoop_ from the back. Adrien grinned. “Let’s finish cleaning up and get out of here so we can enjoy our breaks, shall we?”

Spirits high, the staff worked at double its normal speed to finish breaking down and cleaning the kitchen, and before Adrien knew it, workers were walking out the door in twos and threes, calling out cheerful wishes for happy holidays to each other.

Adrien waved goodbye to Nino, and then he glanced over the empty, immaculate kitchen with satisfaction, marveling at how efficient everyone had been today. It was just his luck that things would go this well when his father was traveling to a conference and not even here to see it, but he wouldn’t complain. Four days without Gabriel breathing down his neck, even if it meant spending the holidays without his only family, was a welcome respite from the tremendous pressure weighing him down lately.

He couldn’t wait to just _sleep_ for the next couple of mornings, to stop at a coffee shop and really sit down to enjoy a café au lait, to visit the market with the intent to truly create and not to just to sell, maybe even to try to whip up something new in the comfort of his own kitchen without the specter of his father criticizing him, to—

To do all of this alone.

Adrien untied his apron and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he shuffled into the locker room and sat on the bench lining the wall. Grateful as he was for the break from his father, he deflated a bit realizing how lonely the next few days would be. Besides Chloé, who was in New York City for the holiday with her parents, the rest of the La Confiture staff were really the only other people with whom he interacted on a regular basis. Of course, he’d be the last person they wanted to see on their precious few days away from the restaurant. Even Nino probably needed a break from him, close as they were.

The slamming of a locker door startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng at the far end of the room, shrugging on a dark red pea coat and wrapping a black scarf around her neck.

“Chef Dupain-Cheng,” Adrien said, surprised. He stood up. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Oh!” Marinette jumped and turned around, holding a hand to her chest. Her hat was askew over her hair. She walked over to him. “I didn’t even see you when I walked in here!”

Adrien laughed. “Sorry if I startled you.”

Marinette shook her head. “That’s okay, I should have been paying more attention.” She slipped her hat off of her head and held it in both hands before turning her eyes up at him. She paused, as if pondering her next sentence carefully, but when she spoke again, her question was quite simple. “What about you?”

“Me? What _about_ me?”

Marinette looked around the dim locker room as if the meaning of her question were obvious. “Were you… Were you planning on sticking around longer?”

“Oh—no, I was going to lock up and head out in just a few minutes. Just…” He looked back at the bench. “I just needed a minute to take a breather after today.”

Marinette smiled. “That’s understandable.” She paused again, and then she let out a soft laugh. “There are rumors you sleep in here sometimes. I wondered for a second if I was catching you at bedtime.”

Adrien stared at her, momentarily stunned—it was the first time in the two months Marinette had worked at La Confiture that he’d heard anything unrelated to work, let alone a joke, come out of her mouth when she spoke to him. He burst into delighted laughter. “Is there really? I guess on occasion, it’s not too far from the truth. But I was planning on actually going home tonight, rest assured.”

Marinette’s smile seemed to touch her eyes more now, somehow, and Adrien felt his heart leap to life at the hint of a new friendship. Marinette had seemed so quiet and focused since she’d arrived at La Confiture; he’d accepted within a week of her starting in his kitchen, after a few unsuccessful attempts at casual conversation, that she had bigger things to think about than being friends with him. This was a lovely turn of events.

“Ah—by the way, Chef,” Adrien said, “your work was excellent today. I can’t tell you how many compliments your chutney received, even when the customers didn’t request to see you to tell you personally. You really are a wonderful addition to our kitchen.”

Marinette flushed. “Oh, I—well, thank you,” she murmured, tugging her hat—a black beanie with cat ears and green eyes knitted onto it—back on her head.  Adrien bit back a smile when he saw how much the hat reminded him of Plagg. “And thank you for not blowing up when I was late today.”

Adrien shook his head. “No need to thank me. My father and I…” he paused. “We have very different ways of running the kitchen.”

“I think your way works a little better for me,” Marinette muttered, and then her eyes went wide when she realized what she’d said. “I mean—no offense to Chef Agreste, of course—”

Adrien laughed again. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Marinette let out a sigh. “Thanks.” She looked up at him. “Are you—are you walking out now? Would you like me to wait for you to lock up?”

Adrien’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Yes, I’d love that,” he said, and then he blushed when he realized how desperate that sounded. “I—one second, let me just grab my stuff from my locker.”

He rushed off to grab his bag, elation and embarrassment warring with each other in his heart. When he returned and saw Marinette standing in the same spot where he’d left her, looking completely oblivious to his verbal blunder (and ridiculously adorable in that hat), elation won.

\---

That concludes part one of this story! My plan is for it to be relatively short and sweet—no more than five parts, with each part being around ten pages or so. I hope you guys enjoyed! I love cooking, I love cooking shows, and I worked in a restaurant (although not nearly as nice as the one I’m portraying here) for quite some time, so I have really enjoyed working on this fic. That being said, I took a few liberties that probably need a little bit of explaining.

First, I’m not really sure that one needs to be an excellent baker to become a sous chef at a top restaurant. Here, Gabriel Agreste likes his sous chefs extremely well-rounded, and Marinette can hardly make a loaf of bread without ruining it. The mistakes she made are _extremely_  amateur, so please suspend your disbelief—I unfortunately am not experienced enough in baking to know what kinds of mistakes are more common for people who know their way around the kitchen! 

Second, just by way of explanation: Gabriel is the chef de cuisine, or the head chef, of the restaurant. Adrien is the sous chef. Since Adrien is so experienced and good at what he does, Gabriel is in and out and takes on more of a managerial position, but he still commands the kitchen multiple days a week. Marinette has been hired as a saucier, or someone who prepares all the sauces and gravies and sautés the food. 

I tried to do a good bit of research about the environment in a top-tier restaurant like this, but of course, I’m likely to get things wrong with the zero experience I have actually having worked in one. If you catch anything that seems blatantly off (minus Marinette’s baking issues), please let me know!


	2. Part II

**la confiture**

part ii.

_Reply Comment from Ladybug to Chat Noir_

_1:55 AM_

_24/12_

_Chat Noir, thank you for your advice! I believe you’re right—the moment I saw the layer of curdled custard at the bottom of the pan, I knew I’d messed up. And I will certainly use the food processor to make the crust next time. Anything to make things easier! It’s odd, because I cook quite often, but baking is just such a different game to me. Things seem to go wrong all the time when I bake. If something goes wrong when I cook, I’m able to let it roll of my shoulders with ease. If something goes wrong when I bake, it’s like watching a row of dominoes fall—I know from the start that I’m doomed. In any case, when I try this recipe again, I’ll keep your words in mind. Thanks again!_

\---

Marinette bundled her scarf more tightly around the bottom half of her face as she braced against the biting cold. The sun was just rising now, but the farmer’s market, open with plenty of day-after-Christmas sales, was already teeming with shoppers.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, she made her way up to a fruit stand offering quinces and pears at a reduced rate. She reached out to grab a pear, gently squeezing to feel its firmness and then doing the same with a quince. She hadn’t come to the market with the intent to develop new ideas for her blog—rather, she’d been set on trying to concoct something original with some of the new cooking techniques she’d picked up at work—but she’d seen a recipe a few days ago for an upside down quince and honey spice cake that had sounded promising.

She had a whole two days off, she thought. She could do both. Besides, she _did_ need a new post for her blog.

Marinette glanced up at the vendor. “Could I get five of these quinces, please? And a couple of pears, too. The largest ones you see.”

Forty-five minutes later, Marinette was struggling her way down the street with two heavy paper bags full of ingredients with which she had no real idea what to do (save for the quinces). She had to admit to herself that she hadn’t really thought this through; it was four blocks to the subway station, and she’d purchased enough food to feed a family of twelve. She readjusted the handle of the bag in her right hand, which was cutting into her palm, even with gloves on.

“Chef Dupain-Cheng?”

Marinette turned around. Adrien stood a few steps behind her, holding his own bundles of market goods in either arm, nose tinged red at the tip and breathing out clouds of cold air.

“Chef Agreste,” she said, tilting her head to one side. She didn’t know why she was surprised. From what she’d gathered about him, it seemed quite like Adrien to work from the crack of dawn, even on his days off.

He beamed at her acknowledgment. Marinette didn’t know what to make of this, but somehow, she felt her lips smiling back of their own accord.

He walked up and closed the gap between them. “How are you? Did you have a good Christmas?”

“I did, thank you.” Marinette nodded. “Did you?”

Much to Marinette’s confusion, Adrien’s smile faltered for a half-second before it reappeared. He opened his mouth, then closed it before opening it again. “I did.”

“Good,” Marinette said, glancing down at his bags. “Getting right back to work today?”

Adrien shook his head. “Just messing around in the kitchen at home. You, too?”

Marinette nodded, thankful that the quinces were well-hidden at the bottom of one of her bags. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and readjusted the bag in her left hand now.

Adrien caught this and startled. “Ah, well, I won’t keep you. Are you walking this way to your car?”

Marinette shook her head. “To the subway.”

Adrien’s eyes widened. “That’s so far!”

“It’s not too bad,” Marinette lied.

“I—you know, my car is just across the street—I could give you a ride—”

“Oh, that’s—no, that’s all right. I wouldn’t want to impose,” Marinette said quickly, trying to cover up her surprise, although getting out of the cold as soon as possible sounded impossibly appealing.

“You’re not imposing,” Adrien said, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”

Marinette readjusted the bags again. “I live across town.”

Adrien shrugged. “I’ve got time.”

“Well…” Marinette chewed on her lower lip. She’d almost liked it better when Adrien Agreste was just a goal, the final hurdle she had to jump to get to the finish line, instead of this bewilderingly kind person who seemed determined to make friends with her if it was the last thing he did. But she was freezing, these bags were cutting into her hands and at least one would almost certainly break before she even made it to the train, and she’d have to think over all of this at a more convenient time. “Okay.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

\---

“So, let me get this straight. You exchanged numbers. And then he invited you over? Like, to his house?”

Marinette nodded, squinting at the recipe she’d printed out and taped to her kitchen wall. The sweet, honeyed smell of poached fruit in the air was making her mouth water. “Uh huh.” She cursed under her breath. “I didn’t realize I’d have to refrigerate the quinces overnight after I put them in the syrup. Which is really silly, when you think about it.”

“What, that you have to refrigerate them or that you didn’t realize that you have to refrigerate them?” Alya said, pointing her camera at the pot of glistening quinces and snapping a few pictures. “Here, shine your phone’s flashlight from a couple of feet away, will you? Anyway, are you going to go?”

“That I didn’t realize it,” Marinette said, stepping a few paces back and holding her phone light over the pot. Alya’s camera clicked rapidly. “I just didn’t have my head on straight this morning, I guess. And no, don’t be silly. Why would I go to his house?”

Alya glanced up from her camera. “Um. Are you joking? Have you _seen_ him?”

Marinette stared at the pot of quinces, trying to figure out a workaround to waiting an entire day to continue the rest of the recipe. She could think of a few, of course, but it seemed like every time she tried to do something off the books when she baked, everything went horribly awry. “I thought we established he wasn’t my type.” 

“I only said that because I didn’t want his hotness to distract you from your goals.”

Marinette threw her head back and laughed. “Well, it hasn’t so far, so I think we’re safe there. Anyway, I highly doubt he was asking me to come over because he’s interested in me. He asked me to come test out some new dish he was working on. He has staff members come over all the time to test out new recipes, from what I’ve heard. It’s business, you know?”

“Well, if it’s just business, why don’t you go?”

Marinette frowned at her friend. “Why are you so insistent on me going?” 

“Come on, you’re not the least bit curious about him? How he lives? What his house looks like?” Alya said, straightening up and grinning. “I know I am! And I would totally go over there, except I’m not the one who got invited.”

“You’re such a creep,” Marinette laughed. “I mean… I guess. Maybe a little.”

“At the very least, it could be recon. You could probably learn something new.”

Marinette stared again at the quinces. She sighed, flipping her phone around and pulling up _Adrien Agreste_ from her contacts list. “Fine.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess I’ll follow the directions this time. The quinces will sit until tomorrow. I’ll tell you about it when you come back over.”

Alya let out a triumphant _whoop_. “You’re crazy if you think I’m waiting till tomorrow to hear about this! You’re calling me as soon as you get home.”

\--- 

“This is it,” Adrien said, leading Marinette away from his front door and opening his arms to gesture at the condo.

Marinette glanced around, eyes wide. “It’s lovely.” She smiled. “I adore old buildings like these. I’ve always wanted to see inside of one.”

Adrien followed her gaze, trying to see his apartment—an upper-level unit in a mill smack in the middle of the city that had been repurposed into condominiums—through new eyes. He’d bought it for two main reasons: the size of the kitchen and the relative distance from his childhood home, which sat in the quieter outer edges of Paris. But the brick walls and vaulted ceilings had been a nice bonus.

 “Thank you.” Adrien noticed Marinette clutching her coat to her chest. “Can I take that from you?”

“Hm? Oh, thank you,” Marinette said, letting Adrien take the coat from her hands and hang it on the rack by the door.

“Feel free to look around,” Adrien said, rolling up his sleeves and hurrying over to the refrigerator to pull out items he’d left to chill. “I just need to finish prepping a few things here.”

Marinette nodded and walked around the apartment slowly, head turning this way and that. She paused in the living room to observe a mural Adrien had hung above the couch—a woman whose long dress depicted the universe, in the style of Klimt.  

Adrien ducked his head back down toward his ingredients, trying not to wonder what she was thinking. He didn’t understand why he was so nervous about making a good impression. Perhaps it was that she’d seemed so acutely uninterested in being friends in the beginning that her sudden reciprocation of his efforts felt that much more fragile. A single misstep, he thought, and it’d be over.

 _You didn’t ask her here to be friends_ , he chided himself. _You wanted a test audience_.

Still, when he’d gotten a text from her reading, _Does that offer to come by and try a new Agreste creation still stand?_ , he’d nearly dropped his phone into the broth he’d had simmering all morning.

“Oh! Who’s this?”

Adrien glanced back up. Plagg had wandered his way into the living room and was nudging his nose against Marinette’s booties.

“I’m sorry, I should have warned you—I hope you’re not allergic—”

“No, not at all,” Marinette said, reaching down and holding out a finger. She looked up at Adrien. “What’s his name?”

“Plagg.” Adrien smiled as Plagg butted his head gently against Marinette’s palm. “He likes you.”

Marinette cooed at the cat. “Can I pick him up?”

“Oh, yes. He loves to be held.”

Marinette scooped Plagg up into her arms and held him for a while, examining photos and knickknacks scattered around the room, before she approached Adrien from across the condo. She set Plagg down on the ground and leaned forward on the island counter. “Can I help with anything?”

“That’s all right, I’ve got it covered. And I’m sorry for being rude, I should have offered you some coffee or something—”

Marinette shook her head and laughed. “Chef, it’s fine. I’m enjoying myself as I am. There’s no need to bend over backwards for me.”

Adrien watched her for a moment, pressing his lips together before saying what he wanted to say. “You don’t have to keep calling me that. ‘Adrien’ is okay, you know.”

“But—on my first day, Chef Agreste said—”

“Never mind what my father said,” Adrien insisted, although his voice was gentle. “Especially when we’re outside the kitchen.”

Marinette glanced around. A smile played on her lips. “Well, we _are_ in a kitchen.”

Adrien chuckled. “So we are.” He looked down at his plate, where he was arranging thinly shaved slices of watermelon radish into a flower. “If _you’re_ more comfortable calling me Chef Agreste, of course, that’s different, and more than fine. But it’s just a formality I’ve never really taken to.”

“No, I think… I think I would like to call you Adrien,” Marinette said. “And as for me, please call me Marinette.”

Adrien glanced back up at her again. She blinked back at him, and he felt warmth in the pit of his stomach. 

“Marinette.” He tried the name out in his mouth, realizing he’d never said it out loud even once before. “I like that.”

Marinette’s lips curved up into a smile. “Well, that’s a relief. It’s my name, after all.”

Adrien laughed. The warmth in his belly grew, and suddenly, he realized the aching loneliness he’d felt since the night before had long since gone away completely.

The oven timer _ding_ ed, and Adrien straightened up, realizing he’d been staring unabashedly at Marinette as he’d let his thoughts wander. Thankfully, she’d turned her attention back to Plagg and hadn’t seemed to notice at all.

Adrien slipped an oven mitt on. “You’ve got to be honest with me about this dish, okay?” 

Marinette picked up the silverware Adrien had laid out for her on the island and clanked the ends dramatically against the surface of the counter. She grinned. “Bring it on.”

\---

Marinette tapped one of her hands against her thigh, watching Paris go by outside the window in a blur. Somehow, she’d ended up staying at Adrien’s condo for the rest of the day, and darkness had fallen. The streets, wet with melted snow, glistened under the reflection of the streetlamps and holiday lights.

“Thank you for coming by,” Adrien said from beside her, and she turned back toward him. His eyes remained trained on the road, but his lips had turned up into a smile. Then again, she thought, maybe he’d been smiling this whole time. It seemed rare that he wasn’t.

“Thank _you_. That dish was delicious. It’ll be a hit, I have no doubt,” Marinette said, trying not to sound too rueful about it.

Even after years of experience, she didn’t think she could concoct anything like Adrien had served her—local clams served in a savory, yet sweet broth, with floating arrangements of watermelon radish made to look like chrysanthemums and slices of fresh-baked bread to sop up the broth after everything else had been consumed. It had looked magnificent and tasted even better. Marinette had marveled at the idea that it had been his first attempt at the dish, and she couldn’t decide whether it was better or worse that her rival was remarkably kind on top of being a culinary genius.

Perhaps even more agitating was just how good of a baker Adrien was—something of which Marinette had been minutely aware, but had not truly recognized till he’d provided her a slice of his coffee cake after serving dinner. When she’d blurted out after the first several bites that she’d only be able to bake like this in her wildest dreams, Adrien had, much to both her delight and fury, invited her back some time to show her how he made the cake.

Marinette had not given him a response, but she knew Alya would prod her to say yes.

“That’s very kind of you,” Adrien said softly. “You’re _sure_ you didn’t have any criticisms?”

Marinette pursed her lips and looked up at the sky through the rooftop window of the car, trying to think of something. If it had been her recipe, what would she have done differently? “Maybe reduce the sweetness of the broth a little? Keeping a hint of the sweetness would be lovely, I think. But you could afford to tone it down by maybe ten percent and I think it’d bring out even more of the intended flavors of the broth and the shellfish. Especially paired with a white wine and the winter fruit tart after, since those will both already be very sweet.”

“You’re right. That’s a great point,” Adrien mused. “Would you mind trying out the updated rendition once I tweak the recipe?” 

Marinette wondered if this meant another trip to his condo. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind if that was the case, but she didn’t ask. “I’m flattered you asked. Of course I wouldn’t mind.”

Adrien grinned. “Thank you, Marinette.” He paused. “I really did enjoy the evening. I didn’t expect anyone to come by and provide company—or feedback, I mean—but...”

Marinette turned to look at him when he paused again, longer this time, and wondered a bit at the way he was pulling at his lower lip with his teeth now—as if he were nervous, almost.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Marinette ducked her head down for a moment to hide her shock. “I enjoyed it, too,” she said, after a moment.

Adrien was full of surprises, she thought.

\---

“All right. Lay it on me. Give me all the juicy details.”

Marinette laughed, pressing her phone to her ear with her shoulder as she flipped the lights off around her flat and moved toward her bedroom.

“No juicy details. Except maybe that he’s more annoyingly perfect than I’d already thought.”

Alya laughed from the other end of the line. “How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marinette muttered, setting the phone down on her dresser and putting it on speakerphone as she changed for bed. “Lives in a gorgeous condo. Whipped up a perfect—I kid you not, _perfect_ —new dish for the menu out of thin air like it was nothing. He can bake, too. And he’s actually so nice that it’s, like, weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s just too nice, Alya! He offered to teach me how to make his coffee cake when I told him I couldn’t bake! He asked me if I could come back to critique his dish a second time. He insisted on driving me home.” 

“How is any of that weird? To me, it just sounds like he likes you.”

Marinette snorted, although she heard Adrien saying, _“I’m glad it was you”_ in that sweet, solemn way of his, his silhouette lit by the lights of the storefronts as he drove them through the streets of Paris, and had to shake her head to return to the present. “Don’t be absurd.”

“What? I don’t think it’s absurd! Why would he suddenly be pouring all of this effort into talking to you and hanging out with you? Clearly, you caught his attention, and he wants to impress you.”

Marinette shook her head as she crawled into bed. “I don’t think that’s it, Alya.” She thought back to how she’d caught him glancing up at her, every so often, from his position in the kitchen as she’d meandered through his apartment, or how he’d seemed to pause carefully to consider how to respond to her in conversation, only to say something totally harmless. “I think he wants to be friends—but for some reason, I think he’s a little scared of me.”

This time, it was Alya’s turn to snort. “Scared? Of what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t _think_ I’m scary. And I certainly don’t know why someone like him would be scared of someone like me. But that’s what it feels like.”

Marinette expected Alya to laugh some more, but she didn’t. “So, what do you think you’ll do, then? He’s your rival, right?”

Marinette pressed her lips together and then sighed. “Well, my goals remain unchanged, obviously. But I don’t see why we can’t be friends, I guess.”

“It’s harder to dethrone a king you like,” Alya mused.

“He’s not a king. He’s a prince,” Marinette replied jokingly, but she acknowledged the principle behind Alya’s words anyway. She’d never cursed anyone for being so kind before, but there was a first time for everything, she supposed.

\---

The remainder of the break went by far too quickly, and before Marinette knew it, she was frantically rushing through the first dinner service after the Christmas holidays like her life depended on it.

The night had been utterly chaotic, and in a way different from the last few months Marinette had been there. Not only was La Confiture fully booked, but Gabriel Agreste, for whatever reason, had been in an extraordinarily foul mood, and it had seeped into the air in the kitchen throughout the day. Most notably, he’d reduced Rose, the _pattisier_ , to tears before dinner service had even begun, over a readily fixable miscalculation in the number of pastry puffs she’d needed to bake for a certain dish that day. Marinette noted silently that Adrien, who’d been sunny and playful with the staff all through prep, had become grim and quiet after the incident, speaking only to dole out orders or to compliment another chef’s work.

So it was with great trepidation that Marinette found herself standing before the door of the chef de cuisine’s office after dinner service had ended, wringing her hands and then finally knocking on the door after a few more seconds of fretting.

 “Come in.” 

Gabriel Agreste’s office was, much like the man himself, sleek and modern in an austere kind of way—all clean lines, no papers or stray pens or pencils out of place. Hardly anything hung on the walls; only a framed black-and-white photograph of Gabriel with a very young elementary school-age Adrien, which Marinette had to resist staring at, sat on the corner of his desk. 

“You—you asked to see me, Chef?”

Gabriel looked up from a sheath of papers he’d been reviewing and eyed Marinette over the rim of his glasses. “Ah, yes. Chef Dupain-Chang. Please shut the door.” 

Marinette swallowed and did so. There was no second chair in the small office, so she leaned her back against it, hands behind her back. Against her will, she replayed the scene with Rose in her head, the way Gabriel had unflinchingly insulted her work ethic and dedication to her work in front of the entire kitchen staff. He hadn’t quite raised his voice, but he hadn’t needed to—somehow, the quietness of his rebuke had made it that much nastier and more terrifying. Marinette supposed she should be thankful that Gabriel had thought to summon her into the privacy of his office for whatever he needed to berate her about.

Gabriel set down his pen and turned in his chair toward her fully, adjusting his glasses and folding his hands. “You’ve been here for, what, three months now?”

 “About two and a half, Chef,” Marinette said.

 She wanted to smack herself. Why was she correcting him? Two and a half was basically three!

 “Very well. Two and a half. When we brought you on, I was a little dubious,” Gabriel said, leaning one elbow on his desk. “Your résumé was lacking compared to what we usually hire from.”

Marinette ducked her head. “Yes, Chef.”

“But I have to admit, Chef Dupain-Cheng, that I’m pleased we took our chances. Adrien was insistent after your initial demonstration that we hire you. It’s a good thing I chose to listen to him.” 

Marinette raised her head, eyes wide. Now _that_ was a lot to unpack. “E-excuse me?”

“You’ve consistently been displaying excellent work since you arrived. The guests have had only great things to say about your food.”

Marinette felt so weak with relief that it took all her will not to slide onto the floor. “Um—thank you, Chef. I really appreciate that.” 

“Keep up the good work, Chef Dupain-Cheng. The only danger with doing a great job is that you set a higher standard for yourself.”

Marinette nodded. “Understood. Thank you again, Chef.” 

“Good evening, Chef Dupain-Cheng.” 

“Good evening.” Marinette slipped out of the office and shut the door. The kitchen had largely emptied out in her time in Gabriel’s office, and she wandered to the locker room in a daze before finally letting herself slump over onto the bench, trying to process what had just happened.

Gabriel Agreste—the _legendary_ Gabriel Agreste—had just told Marinette that he was happy with her work. That was as good as a gold medal to her. She wanted to squeal with glee. And then there was what he’d told her about Adrien— 

“Marinette?”

Marinette jumped.

Adrien Agreste had appeared from behind the row of lockers, bag slung over his shoulders. “Still here?” 

“Ah—yeah,” Marinette said, standing and smiling sheepishly. “Just going to get my bag.”

“I’ll walk out with you, if you’ll give me a moment to lock up,” Adrien said, smiling.

“Oh, I think Chef Agreste is still here. He was in his office a moment ago.” 

“Oh,” Adrien said, and his face seemed to fall at the mention of his father. Marinette blinked, and the smile was back in place. “All right, then. Would you like to walk out together anyway?”

Marinette nodded. “Sure.”

It was odd, how easy and almost routine it had suddenly become, after just a couple of meetings, to fall into step with Adrien after work like this. How _not_ weird it felt to see him waiting patiently by the locker room door as she put on her layers of winter clothing. How he’d make some terribly unfunny joke that made Marinette throw her head back and laugh anyway. And now, knowing that he’d championed her employment at La Confiture in the first place, Marinette suddenly recognized a warmth she’d felt toward him for the last few days but had not been able to name or point out until just now. 

Alya was right—dethroning him would not be easy, and not just because Marinette worried she might never catch up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments on the first chapter, everyone! writing this gives me a lot of joy, so i’m glad everyone else enjoyed it, too. this story is unabashedly like, 99% about adrien and marinette, so the vast majority of scenes will be about them meeting, thinking about each other, their conversations, etc. alya and nino, of course, will get a little screen time, too, when they meet—which should be next chapter! please stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and a comment below!


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